So he went back to his tentative romance. She had passed his window and disappeared into the fog, and there was a reasonable doubt of her ever returning from it. The Singer in the Fog; thus he would write it down in his book of memories and sensibly turn the page. Once down-town he would countermand his order, and that would be the end of it. At length he came back to the entrance and surrendered the mare. He was about to cross the square, when he was hailed. "Hello, Jack! I say, Hillard!" Hillard wheeled and saw Merrihew. He, too, was in riding-breeches. "Why, Dan, glad to see you. Were you in the park?" "Riverside. Beastly cold, too. Come into the Plaza and join me in a cup of good coffee." "Had breakfast long ago, boy." "Oh, just one cup! I'm lonesome." "That's no inducement; but I'll join you," replied Hillard cheerfully. The two entered the cafe, sat down, and Merrihew ordered Mocha. "How are you behaving yourself these days?" asked Merrihew. He drank more coffee and smoked more cigars than were good for him. He was always going to start in next week to reduce the quantity. "My habits are always exemplary," answered Hillard. "But yours?" Merrihew's face lengthened. He pulled the yellow hair out of his eyes and gulped his coffee. "Kitty Killigrew leaves in two weeks for Europe." "And who the deuce is Kitty Killigrew?" demanded Hillard. "What?" reproachfully. "You haven't heard of Kitty Killigrew in _The Modern Maid_? Where've you been? Pippin! Prettiest soubrette that's hit the town in a dog's age." "I say, Dan, don't you ever tire of that sort? I can't recall when there wasn't a Kitty Killigrew. What's the attraction?" Hillard waved aside the big black cigar. "No heavy tobacco for me in the morning. What's the attraction?" Merrihew touched off a match, applied it to the black cigar, took the cigar from his teeth and inspected the glowing end critically. He never failed to go through this absurd pantomime; he would miss a train rather than omit it. "The truth is, Jack, I'm a jackass half the time. I can't get away from the glamour of the footlights. I'm no Johnny; you know that. No hanging round stage-entrances and buying wine and diamonds. I might be reckless enough to buy a bunch of roses, when I'm not broke. But I like 'em, the bright ones. They keep a fellow amused. Most of 'em speak good English and come from better families than you would suppose. Just good fellowship, you know; maybe a rabbit and a bottle of beer after the performance, or a little quarter limit at the apartment, singing and good stories. What you've in mind is the chorus-lady. Not for mine!" Hillard laughed, recalling his conversation with the policeman. "Go on," he said; "get it all out of your system, now that you're started."